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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26712397">rules of the game</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/janewestin/pseuds/janewestin'>janewestin</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Suits (US TV), The Devil Wears Prada (2006)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Lawyers, Andy and mike bromance, Complete, Crossover, F/F, Reunion, Ugh, andy is good at things fic, andy is miranda's knight in shining armor okay, attorney andy, it's going to be a 6k word setup, okay a 5400 word setup</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 07:09:03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,560</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26712397</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/janewestin/pseuds/janewestin</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"She had no shortage of validation these days. Hell, it was probably the mortification of her exit from Runway that had fueled her magna cum laude from Harvard law, and the subsequent appointment at Pearson Hardman. Her job was to win, so she won. Frequently. This would be no different. </p><p>And if Miranda saw her do it—well. Icing on the cake. "</p><p>*updated with some edits after two excellent beta reads!!!*</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Miranda Priestly/Andrea Sachs</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>183</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>491</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>well I started watching Suits again and I got to thinking that my favorite trope is Andy reappearing in Miranda's life unexpectedly, and then I started thinking about Andy helping Miranda in my molliverse series, and then...I don't know. This happened. No idea where it's going, as usual. </p><p>a VERY giant thank-you to my amazing beta-readers in_the_sometime and wilfriede0815!!! thanks to you both, this story is better than I could have ever hoped x</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em>‘Control</em>,’<em>for the purposes, shall mean the possession, indirectly or directly, of the power to direct—</em></p><p> “I need your help.” A file folder landed on Andy’s desk.</p><p> —<em>or cause direction of the management and policies of a Person—</em>“I’m busy.”</p><p> Mike peered over her shoulder and rolled a lollipop from one side of his mouth to the other. “The Sterling merger?” he said, sounding surprised. “I thought they closed last week.” </p><p>“Keane’s wife had the baby, so they pushed it to the twelfth. Go bother Owens,” Andy said, turning her chair to block his view.</p><p> “Owens is a moron,” Mike replied. “I need you.”</p><p> “And I need<em>you</em>to leave me alone. No.”</p><p> Mike pointed the lollipop at Andy’s screen. “I think you missed a recital.”</p><p> “<em>All right.</em>” Andy spun the chair to face him and found herself with an eight-inch-high armful of file folders. </p><p> She looked down, then at the folder he’d slapped onto her desk. Raised an eyebrow at him.</p><p> He picked it up and grinned, shaking it to demonstrate its emptiness. “For effect.” </p><p>Andy glared. “Does Harvey know you spend half your time begging fourth-years to do your work for you?”</p><p> “Trade you for Sterling,” Mike said immediately. “I’ll be done by four o’clock.”</p><p>“If you screw it up—”</p><p> Mike grinned. “I won’t.”</p><p> Andy made a face. “Two at the latest,” she said.</p><p>***</p><p> At twelve-thirty, she stalked into the bullpen.</p><p> “Oh, hey,” Mike said, looking up. “I’m just fin—”</p><p> “I’m not here about that.” Andy grabbed his arm and hauled him up. “Come with me.”</p><p> “Uh.” He lurched a little, caught himself. “Okay.”</p><p> In the file room, she turned to face him. “I can’t help with your case,” she said.</p><p> Mike’s mouth fell open. “What? Did you even look at it?”</p><p> <em>“Yes</em>, I looked at it.” </p><p> “Then why?” </p><p> Andy felt her face heat up. “None of your business.”</p><p> Mike shut his mouth and gave her a narrow, interrogative look. He didn’t say anything.</p><p> Finally Andy threw her hands in the air. “I have a conflict of interest, okay?”</p><p> “Uh huh.” He didn’t sound convinced. “You have shares in Greaves International or something?”</p><p> “No,” Andy snapped. “As a matter of fact, Miranda Priestly was my boss.”</p><p> His expression didn’t change. “In the past three years?”</p><p> “Uh.” Andy wrinkled her nose. “Well, no.”</p><p> He arched an eyebrow. Waited.</p><p> “Fine,” Andy said, scowling. “I just don’t want to. Is that sufficient, jerk?”</p><p> “Come<em>on.”</em>Mike’s tone turned pleading. “You’re nicer than I am. And you know about—” He gestured at Andy’s outfit. “All this.”</p><p> Andy folded her arms. “So does Harvey.” </p><p> “Yeah, but McKernon Motors is on the rocks. If I don’t deliver he might kill me,” Mike said. “I can’t do both.<em>Please.</em>”</p><p> “Just—” Andy shut her eyes and gritted her teeth. She did owe Mike for the noodle thing. “Fine. But this is your chit.”</p><p> “Yes! Absolutely! Thank you, thank you, thank you.” Mike sounded giddy with relief. </p><p> Andy opened her eyes. “Hug me on pain of death,” she growled.</p><p> ***</p><p>That moment on the stairs had been the last time she’d looked Miranda in the face. Stephen had looked almost comically incredulous, but Miranda—</p><p>Disbelief, and then astonishment. And then, worse even than the rage that followed it: shame. Andy had never been the cause of anyone’s humiliation before. Emily, voice shaking with fury, had delivered the news of Andy’s termination the following morning.</p><p> “You need this,” Donna said, setting a coffee cup on the picnic table. </p><p> Andy groaned. “I look that bad, huh?”</p><p> “Worse,” Donna moved Andy’s bag and sat down. “I don’t think this was worth the noodle thing. How long have you been out here?”</p><p> Andy rubbed a hand over her eyes. “An hour, maybe. I don’t know. Is someone looking for me?”</p><p> “With the Bainbridge hearing coming up? Are you kidding?” Donna snorted. “No.” She nudged the pile of paperwork. “What is it, anyway?”</p><p> Andy blinked. “You don’t know?”</p><p> “Of course I know the<em>case</em>,” Donna said, rolling her eyes. “I want to know what about the case made you run to the roof in a panic.”</p><p> “I didn’t—” Andy broke off when she saw Donna’s eyebrows creeping up. “Okay, maybe I did.”</p><p> When the eyebrows didn’t come back down, Andy sighed. “She fired me.”</p><p> Donna froze. Her expression went completely blank. It took a second, but Andy realized why. </p><p> “Oh my God, no,” she exclaimed, putting one hand on the stack of files. “Not for the same reason as—I didn’t mean—”</p><p> “<em>Oh</em>.” Relief in Donna’s voice. “Jesus, Andy.”</p><p> Andy grimaced. “Sorry.”</p><p> “Okay.” Donna picked up Andy’s coffee and sipped. “Then for what?”</p><p> <em>Climbing a flight of stairs</em>was a pretty stupid answer, so Andy just said “I made a mistake.”</p><p> “One mistake?” Another sip. “Hardly seems fireable. Not that I would know, since I don’t make any.”</p><p> “It was just—” Andy sighed. “Really embarrassing.”</p><p> Donna gave her a level stare and stood. “Well,” she said, “if you and Mike don’t figure this out, you’re going to have a lot more than embarrassment to worry about.”</p><p> Andy grimaced. “I know.” </p><p> “And,” Donna added over her shoulder, pulling the rooftop door open, “so will Miranda Priestly.”</p><p> ***</p><p>Wrongful dismissal, she could believe. Discrimination? Unfortunately. </p><p>Harassment? That one was a lot tougher.</p><p>It was not her job, Andy reminded herself, to decide whether a client was guilty. It wasn’t even her job to have an opinion about it. What she thought was completely irrelevant. </p><p>Alan Greaves claimed to have had an affair with Miranda during his employment at Runway two years prior, and to have been fired because of it. Further, he claimed that she had paid him to keep quiet about the whole thing. He’d never said it wasn’t consensual, but counsel had thoughtfully tacked on the harassment claim because he’d been Miranda’s employee at the time.</p><p>Eight million in damages. It seemed like a lofty number, even for JGE. Worse yet, he was threatening to go public.</p><p>From a strictly financial standpoint, they had to win. Elias Clarke was one of the firm’s biggest clients, and Andy very much doubted they’d renew if they sustained a loss of that magnitude, no matter how much Irv Ravitz loved Harvey. From a slightly less objective standpoint, it would destroy Miranda’s reputation. The thought of it gave Andy the same tilted-floor feeling she’d had when she’d heard Miranda pleading with Stephen all those years ago. </p><p> It wasn’t like she<em>cared</em>. Her tenure at Runway had been barely thirteen weeks. Still, she remembered how Miranda’s key had seemed to float into her hand that day. How the approval in those blue eyes had practically made her glow.</p><p> She had no shortage of validation these days. Hell, it was probably the mortification of her exit from Runway that had fueled her magna cum laude from Harvard law, and the subsequent appointment at Pearson Hardman. Her job was to win, so she won. Frequently. This would be no different. </p><p>And if Miranda saw her do it—<em>well</em>. Icing on the cake. </p><p>Mike had the Sterling documents done by three—she couldn’t fault the guy for punctuality, no matter how obnoxious his requests. “Find anything?” he asked, after he’d handed them over to her. </p><p>“Doesn’t look great, at first glance,” Andy admitted. “She destroyed as many careers as she built. Did you get the continuance?”</p><p>“Forty-eight hours.” Mike glanced at the clock. “But—”</p><p>“I know, I know.” Andy reached for her coat. “I’ll call you when I’m done.”</p><p>***</p><p>Outside Pearson Hardman, Andy took a deep breath and turned east. </p><p>Three blocks up, two blocks over. She didn’t like to admit to herself that she detoured, still, to avoid passing the sidewalk she knew Miranda crossed every morning. </p><p>Ancient history. No one would even remember. </p><p>The marble lobby of Elias Clarke was as she remembered, although the security gates and badge scanners had been upgraded. Tall ornamental plants flanked the bank of elevators, and Andy remembered, suddenly, the first time Miranda had walked into one of them and jerked her head for Andy to follow.</p><p><em>God</em>. She was going to have to get out of her own head if she was going to conduct this interview. </p><p>She stopped at the security desk. “I have a meeting with Miranda Priestly.”</p><p>The officer mumbled into a walkie-talkie, listened, narrowed his eyes at her. “You don’t look like a Harvey,” he said pointedly.</p><p>Andy held up her work badge. “Delegated,” she said. “Call if you want.” She hoped he wouldn’t, as that would almost certainly mean a Specter dressing-down for both herself and Mike.</p><p>He gave her an incredulous look, then buzzed her through. “Good luck.”</p><p>The elevators even still <em>smelled</em> the same: stale coffee and cleaning solution, and the lingering scent of expensive perfume. She could tell, still, which of the bustling employees in the building belonged to Runway: their heels remained at least three inches higher than those of anyone else. Andy let the tide of clackers carry her down the gleaming hall and through the glass doors. </p><p>“Can I help you?” Same disdainful expression, same perfect makeup, even though the face was different. It was as though Andy had cracked open a time capsule. For a moment, she felt as flustered as she had been at twenty-three. </p><p>She caught herself.<em>Ancient history</em>, she reminded herself firmly. “Miranda Priestly,” she said to the girl at the desk.</p><p>The girl gave her a slow, irritated blink, then picked up the phone. A moment later, she stood up. “Come with me.”</p><p>It was on the tip of Andy’s tongue to say<em>Don’t worry, I know the way</em>, but she decided that might not be the best approach when Miranda was expecting Harvey anyway. “Thanks,” she said instead.</p><p>She very nearly expected to see Emily sitting at the desk on the left, but of course that was ridiculous. In fact, the desk on the left was now the<em>only</em>desk. Budget cuts, maybe. Miranda wouldn’t have downsized on her own. </p><p>“Here,” the front desk girl said. “Cristina, all yours.”</p><p>Miranda’s assistant was still young, still lovely, still perfectly polished. She picked up the phone. “I have Pearson Hardman.” Listened, and then waved Andy through. </p><p> Andy took a deep breath and walked through the door. </p><p>“I don’t know why you even bothered,” Miranda murmured without looking up from the paperwork spread out on her desk, “you should know I don’t speak to anyone but Har—”</p><p>Andy hadn’t known, until that moment, that it was possible for Miranda Priestly to look shocked. </p><p>The expression lasted barely a second, replaced swiftly by one of cool nonchalance. “And who are you?” she said, and Andy realized that seven years wasn’t long enough to forget Miranda’s affectations, after all.</p><p>She could play it like that. “Andy Sachs,” she said, placing her card on Miranda’s desk. “I’m afraid Harvey couldn’t make it.”</p><p>“So he sent a—” Miranda’s gaze traversed Andy from head to toe. She didn’t finish her sentence.</p><p>Anger flared in Andy’s chest, but she kept her expression neutral. “If you’d prefer to reschedule with Harvey, I’m very happy to do that for you.” </p><p>Miranda looked away. “No,” she said finally.</p><p>Andy sat down, opened her bag—not a Ferragamo or anything, but a perfectly functional Dooney and Bourke—and pulled out her files and a small voice recorder. “Do you mind?”</p><p>Miranda’s lips thinned. “Not at all,” she said, in a tone that indicated that she minded very much indeed.</p><p>Andy turned the recorder on, gave the date. “Andy Sachs with Miranda Priestly in the office of Runway Magazine. Unofficial interview, discovery, deposition date to be set.”</p><p>Miranda went pale. “Deposition,” she repeated.</p><p>“We’re just talking, today.” Andy tried to sound reassuring. She supposed the D-word meant something a little different for people as high-profile as Miranda. “Just going through the story.”</p><p>Miranda stiffened. Her gaze snapped to Andy’s. “There is no<em>story</em>,” she said sharply. “What this man is doing—it’s a complete fabrication.”</p><p>“Okay.” Andy glanced down at the filing. “He alleges that you initiated an affair on May third—”</p><p>“I did no such thing.” Now there was frank rage in Miranda’s voice. “This is extortion. Revenge.” </p><p>“Okay,” Andy repeated, holding up a placating hand. “Let’s talk about the charges, then.”</p><p>Miranda’s nostrils flared, but at last she nodded and sat back. </p><p>It took nearly two hours—at least thirty percent of which was Andy defusing Miranda’s indignant fury—but she got the story. It wasn’t her job to believe Miranda, but she somehow did, anyway, even though the timestamps on the hotel and restaurant charges were linear to the exact dates Greaves had claimed they met. </p><p>“I don’t<em>know</em>how they got there.” Miranda sounded slightly desperate now, inasmuch as Miranda ever sounded desperate. “I<em>did not do this</em>.”</p><p>“We’ll find out,” Andy said. “I think I have all I need for now, Miranda. Thank you.” She turned off the recorder and replaced it in her bag. Stood, and turned for the door. People didn’t usually say good-bye; by this point, they were usually too rattled.</p><p>“Andrea.”</p><p>Andy stopped. Turned.</p><p>Miranda opened her mouth, then closed it again, then looked as though she couldn’t quite believe that no words had come out. She shook her head.</p><p>Andy gave Miranda her most professional smile. “Thank you for your time,” she said, but before she’d clamped her lips on the final<em>m</em>, Miranda spoke.</p><p>“If Harvey sends you again,” she said, her voice almost too quiet to hear, “that would be acceptable.”</p><p>“Sure,” Andy said, blinking in surprise.</p><p>“And Andrea?” </p><p>Something in her tone made Andy’s stomach lurch. “Yes?” she said. Now, she thought, came the<em> That’s all.</em></p><p>Miranda looked down at her hands. “Thank you,” she said.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>She forgot to text Mike on the way back to the office, but as it turned out – </p><p>“Hi,” said Harvey, from behind Andy’s desk.</p><p> Andy’s stomach dropped. “Uh, hi,” she said.</p><p> Harvey swung his feet from the desk to the floor and stood up. “You in the habit of taking assignments from first-years?”</p><p> “I didn’t--” Andy cut herself off. “No."</p><p>“Uh huh.” Harvey looked mildly amused, which didn't, in Andy’s experience, bode particularly well for anyone. He tapped a new stack of paper on Andy’s desk. “Well, then, giving him the bad news won’t have lost its novelty. She wants you to run point.”</p><p> Andy’s jaw dropped. “Wh--what? I can’t--Sterling’s coming up, and the Kittredge bank deal--”</p><p> Harvey was already walking away. “Should’ve thought of that before you started running Mike’s errands for him,” he said, then paused and glanced at her over his shoulder.</p><p>“I’ll give you credit,” he added, the corner of his mouth curling in a wry little grin, “sure seems like you made an impression.”</p><p> ***</p><p>The stacks of files on Andy’s desk appeared to have multiplied, and as she was getting ready to pack them up and head home, another one materialized.</p><p>“These just came through,” Rachel said, looking apologetic as she placed what looked like a full ream of paper onto Andy’s keyboard.</p><p>“Oh my God,” Andy groaned, dropping her forehead onto the stack. “I’m going to kill him.”</p><p>“He used the<em>I have no fashion sense</em>line, didn’t he.” Rachel sat down next to her.</p><p>Andy looked at Rachel out of one eye. “How’d you know?”</p><p>“How do you think? He tried to get me to do it, too,” Rachel said. “I, however, was not gullible enough to comply.”</p><p>“What is this, anyway?” Andy sat up, flipped through the first few pages, and froze. </p><p>Emails. Hundreds and hundreds of emails. </p><p>Hundreds and hundreds of<em>Miranda’s</em>emails.</p><p>“Chill,” Rachel said, completely misinterpreting the expression on Andy’s face. “I’ll help you. You have, what, another 36 hours, right?”</p><p> Andy looked down.<em>I fail to see the difficulty in obtaining something as simple as a reservation</em>--<em>Unacceptable, remove all orange--It’s Emma or no one, you decide--</em></p><p>She rubbed her eyes. Sighed. “Right,” she said. </p><p> ***</p><p> By midnight, they’d only made it through half of the stack of emails, and Andy’s eyes were burning. Rachel had fallen asleep just before eleven.</p><p> “Hey,” Andy said, nudging her. “Let’s get out of here.”</p><p> Rachel blinked and sat up. “Time is it?”</p><p> “Late.” Andy stood, wincing as her back cracked. “Thanks for staying.”</p><p> “Thanks for taking it so I didn’t have to,” Rachel said, yawning. “You find anything?”</p><p> Andy shook her head. “Not yet.”</p><p> “Look on the bright side.” Rachel picked up her bag and gave Andy a sympathetic smile. “At least it’s not noodles.”</p><p> ***</p><p> At two AM, Andy found the first email.</p><p> <em>The Scarborough Hotel, Saturday. Can’t wait.</em>It was dated three days before Miranda’s alleged first encounter with Greaves.</p><p> <em>Can’t wait</em>.</p><p> Can’t wait?</p><p> Andy marked the page and kept reading. May seventeenth:<em>Had a great time. Next Saturday</em>? </p><p> Another marker. Something tight and anxious was forming in the pit of Andy’s stomach.</p><p> June eighth:<em>Can’t make it tonight, working late</em>. It was timed at four-thirty PM.</p><p> “What the...” Andy mumbled.</p><p>Every week or two, between the curt instructional messages and bland budget reports, an email arranging a meeting. Totally different tone, and completely un-Miranda-like wording. </p><p> “Unless she had a personality transplant,” Andy said the next morning, putting the annotated stack on Harvey’s desk, “someone else wrote those emails.”</p><p> Harvey raised his eyebrows. “That so?”</p><p> “That’s so,” Andy said firmly.</p><p> He grinned. “Good,” he said. “Now prove it.”</p><p> ***</p><p> Miranda wasn’t exactly<em>friendly</em>this time around, but at least she was no longer pretending Andy was a total stranger. She flipped through the stack of papers and looked blankly at Andy. “I didn’t write these.”</p><p> “I know,” Andy said. She pulled out another folder--Miranda’s bank records, showing the charges for multiple hotel rooms and transferred funds. “I’m guessing you didn’t make these transactions, either.”</p><p> Miranda’s expression didn’t flicker, but a flush had started in her neck and was creeping slowly toward her face. Her fingers brushed Andy’s as she took the folder and opened it.</p><p> Andy watched her turn page after page, her cheeks now flaming red. When she looked up at last, her eyes were bright with rage. She didn’t say a word, just gazed at Andy, her nostrils flaring with every breath.</p><p> Andy had been cowed by Miranda’s fury, once. But this--this she could handle. </p><p>“Hey,” she said, and reached across the desk, and put her hand on Miranda’s forearm. </p><p>That was usually all it took--a bit of physical contact, just enough to bring a spiraling client back to reality. It was a Harvey Specter move, carefully crafted: head tilted, torso angled forward, features arranged into an expression of steadfast reassurance. He’d actually talked her through it her second week at the firm.</p><p>Miranda didn’t jerk away, as Andy thought she might. She looked down at Andy’s hand on her arm, then back up at Andy.</p><p>Harvey made promises, big bold statements that--to his credit--generally did end up coming true. Andy committed, but she never, ever promised.</p><p>The words were out before she could stop them. “I know this wasn’t you,” she heard herself saying, “and I’m going to prove it.”</p><p>Miranda’s mouth tightened, but some of the tension went out of her posture. She looked down at the statements and nodded. And then, almost as an afterthought, slid her arm from beneath Andy’s hand.</p><p>***</p><p><em>School calendars</em>, the text message said.</p><p> Andy blinked blearily at her phone. That was the entirety of the message, so it was probably--</p><p> <em>Miranda?</em>Andy sent back, and jumped when the phone started ringing.</p><p> She swiped. “Hi.”</p><p> “The girls had meets,” Miranda said, by way of greeting. She sounded wide awake despite the hour. “Debate, and prose. Every other weekend for college prep.”</p><p> <em>Sounds fun</em>, Andy thought. “Okay. Send them over and I’ll cross check with the--” She caught herself. “With the other dates.”</p><p> Andy heard Miranda clear her throat. “Cara had them in her planner,” she said.</p><p> “Okay,” Andy repeated. “And Cara is there?”</p><p> “Of course not,” Miranda said impatiently. “This was two years ago. The girls are in college now.”</p><p> <em>God</em>. If the deposition went like this, Greaves might give up out of sheer irritation. “But you have the planner.” </p><p> She could almost<em>hear</em>Miranda rolling her eyes. “Obviously,” Miranda said.</p><p>“So do you want to scan it, or…” </p><p> There was a long pause, then: “You’ll have to retrieve it.” She sounded as though she was issuing commands at a run-through. “Come by the house in an hour.” </p><p>Three beeps in her ear as the call ended. Andy stared at her phone and wondered how it was, exactly, that she had ended up once more taking orders from Miranda Priestly.</p><p>***</p><p>“You didn’t give me your address,” Andy said, as Miranda stepped back to let her in. </p><p>Miranda arched an eyebrow. “You seem to have had no problem remembering.” And looked first startled at Andy’s bleat of laughter, then affronted.</p><p>“Something funny?” she said.</p><p> “No, I just--” Andy shook her head and hid her grin behind her hand. “Sorry. You know, because you pretended you didn’t know who I was.”</p><p> Miranda’s expression held for about half a second. “I suppose I did,” she said. And then, to Andy’s astonishment, she gave Andy a small smile that looked almost rueful. </p><p> “I didn’t mean to catch you off guard,” Andy said, following her toward the kitchen. “Really.”</p><p> Miranda tilted her head and glanced at Andy out of the corner of her eye. “Cara’s planner,” she said, and touched the outsized binder on the granite island.</p><p> “Oh. Wow.” Now Andy could see why Miranda hadn’t wanted to scan the planner. It was a mess--loose sheets everywhere, Post-Its, stickers, page flags. Cara’s loopy scrawl was barely legible. Andy flipped a couple pages, wondering why two sixteen-year-olds had needed a nanny anyway.</p><p>“Indeed.” Miranda rolled her eyes. “Would that you had taught her organization before you left.”</p><p>Andy blinked. Maybe the stress of the case was affecting Miranda’s brain, because she sounded almost<em>companionable.</em>Not to mention--she <em>remembered—</em></p><p>“Don’t look so surprised,” Miranda said, the dry tone back in her voice. She glanced meaningfully toward the front of the house, then back at Andy. </p><p>Andy cringed. “Are we talking about that?”</p><p>“You seemed no more pleased to see me than--” Miranda stopped. “Well.”</p><p>“I’m sorry, for what it’s worth,” Andy said.</p><p>Miranda looked away. “It was…” A pause. “Hasty. Perhaps.”</p><p>That was, Andy figured, about as close to an apology as Miranda Priestly was likely ever to get. “Well,” she said lightly, closing the planner and sliding it into her bag, “it all turned out all right, I guess.”</p><p>Miranda gazed at her. “Yes,” she said thoughtfully. “Yes, I suppose it did.”</p>
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<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>EDIT</p><p>Okay I posted this earlier and meant to put some notes but forgot. YOU GUYS. Every time I post a story, I am just overwhelmed by how wonderful you all are. Like, I KNOW not all of you are Suits fans. Maybe some of you have never even seen it. But you are still reading and kudosing and commenting and I love you so, so much for it. You have no idea how it fuels me to write, truly. This is such an amazing fandom and I am honored to have been welcomed into it &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Something heavy hit the floor, and Andy jumped. </p><p>“What the<em>fuck</em>,” she gasped, clutching her chest. </p><p>“I completely agree,” Harvey said. He put his foot on the box he’d dropped and pushed it over to her. “Your client is having a temper tantrum.”</p><p>Andy’s stomach lurched. “Elkhart?”</p><p>“<em>Him?</em>” Harvey snorted. “You think I’d be in here for--what are you doing, anyway?”</p><p>“Sterling’s tomorrow.” Andy picked up the box, examined it, and pushed past Harvey to replace it on the shelf. “Last minute stuff.” </p><p>“You find out who wrote those emails?”</p><p>Andy looked at him blankly for a moment, then realized he’d switched gears and was talking about Miranda. “Uh, no,” she said. “I mean, it wasn’t Greaves, we have everything from him.”</p><p>“Well, he was working with<em>someone</em>.” Harvey wandered over to the printer and began pressing buttons. “Who had a grudge?”</p><p>“Who didn’t?” Andy sighed. “Benjamin’s interrogating her computer, and I’ve got a list of everyone who’s ever even looked at her cross-eyed—”</p><p>Harvey snorted. “I’d like to close this century.”</p><p>“—and the shareholders—they weren’t happy with Q1 or the first half of Q2 that year, got a bunch of nasty messages from a few in particular—”</p><p>“Now you’re onto something.” Harvey stopped fiddling with the printer and gave her a sharp look. “Subpoena their emails. IP addresses. Bank records.”</p><p>Andy shut her eyes for a moment, picturing herself being slowly crushed to death by a forest’s worth of paper. “Okay.”</p><p>“And depo prep, obviously,” Harvey added. </p><p>“Uh,” Andy said. “That was supposed to be—” </p><p>“Today. Yeah, I know.” The look on Harvey’s face wasn’t a smirk, but it was pretty close. “Did you think she wouldn’t raise everliving hell when Mike showed up?”</p><p>“It’s not like she would have prepped with me, either,” Andy said defensively. “She said herself she only talks to you.”</p><p>“Not anymore, apparently.” He raised his eyebrows and turned toward the door. “Go smooth things over when you’re done with Sterling.”</p><p>It took a good fifteen minutes, but Andy was able, eventually, to get her jaw off the floor.</p><p>***</p><p>Miranda wanted to see her. Not Mike--she understood that, the guy looked like he was twelve--and not Harvey.<em>Her</em>.</p><p>And she’d<em>apologized</em>to Andy. Well, sort of.</p><p>Despite all the build-up and anxiety, Sterling had been smooth sailing. Louis had even given her a thumbs-up under the table. If it weren’t for this meeting with Miranda, Andy could have gone home early and maybe even watched Netflix or something. But Miranda<em>wanted to see her</em>, and that--was something, surely.</p><p> She rang the doorbell, and almost at once heard the sound of the deadbolt being thrown.</p><p>“I don’t know what you were thinking, Andrea, sending that--that<em>infant</em>--” Miranda’s voice was shaking.</p><p>Andy stepped inside and closed the door. “I’m sorry,” she said, because it was apparent that no explanation would suffice.</p><p>The immediate capitulation seemed to deflate Miranda somewhat. She met Andy’s gaze. “Inadequate,” she muttered.</p><p>“Definitely,” Andy agreed. She followed Miranda toward the library.</p><p>“You should have known--it’s not<em>professional</em>--”</p><p>“No, I know.” Andy waited until Miranda sat, then took the chair next to her. “I really am sorry.”</p><p>The furrow between Miranda’s eyebrows smoothed. “Well,” she said. “You’re here now.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Andy said. “I am. Want to get started?”</p><p>Miranda’s shoulders sagged. She looked at Andy, and sighed, and nodded.</p><p>***</p><p>Three hours in, Miranda stood and walked out of the library. When she came back, she was holding two glasses of wine. </p><p>Andy’s eyebrows went up. “Uh, Miranda--”</p><p>One of the glasses was suddenly in Andy’s hand. She looked down at it and tried again. “I don’t really think--”</p><p>Miranda held up one finger and sat down in the armchair. She tipped her head back, put the glass to her lips, and took three enormous gulps. She stayed like that for a moment, eyes closed, then turned to Andy. Her face was very pale. </p><p>“Andrea,” she said, in a tone so calm and even that it was sort of creepy, “you and I both know that this is a formality.”</p><p>Andy grimaced. “Well--”</p><p>Miranda cut her off again. “You will,” she said, “figure out who gained access to my accounts and my emails. If criminal charges cannot be leveled against him--and I do not see why that would be the case--then you will file a countersuit for defamation, extortion, and whatever--whatever else--”</p><p>Her voice caught. Andy looked up.</p><p>Oh.<em>Oh</em>. </p><p>Miranda’s jaw was clenched. Her eyes were bright. She held Andy’s gaze defiantly, as though she could stare the tears away. </p><p><em>It’s okay to be afraid</em>, Andy wanted to say. </p><p>It wasn’t Andy’s job to decide if Miranda was guilty. It wasn’t even her job to have an opinion. It sort of made sense, then, to do a third thing that wasn’t her job. She put down her pen and wine glass, and reached across the empty space between their chairs, and took Miranda’s hand.</p><p>Miranda breathed out.</p><p>When she did, she closed her eyes, and the tears that had been trembling on her lashes spilled over and dripped onto her lap. She didn’t do anything ludicrous like turn her hand to hold Andy’s, but she didn’t pull away, either, and Andy saw the same small loosening as the day she’d touched Miranda’s arm in the Runway office. </p><p>“It’ll be okay,” Andy said, and winced at the inanity of the words--but Miranda was nodding. She moved her hand away from Andy’s and took a deep breath. When she opened her eyes, she looked much calmer. </p><p>“Now then,” she said, after a moment, “let’s continue, Andrea. I don’t know why there are these constant delays.” </p><p>Andy bit back a smile. “Yeah,” she said. “Must be my fault.”</p><p>Small sniff as Miranda looked away, her cheeks faintly pink. “Undoubtedly,” she said.</p><p>***</p><p>“Andy?”</p><p>Andy looked up. “If this is another dump, Mike—”</p><p>“It’s not,” Mike said hurriedly. </p><p>Andy put a five into the vendor’s waiting hand, then dragged a sleeve across her eyes in a vain attempt to wipe away the rain.<em>Ugh</em>. Her bagel was going to get soaked. </p><p>Mike scurried to catch up. “I just wanted to apologize. I know—I know it’s a little late.”</p><p>Andy gave him an incredulous look. “You can say that again.”</p><p>“I know it’s a little late,” he repeated, giving her a winning grin.</p><p>“Oh, give me a break,” she said, but his earnest expression persisted the rest of the block and up the steps of Pearson Hardman, and she finally let a smile sneak out. </p><p>He pulled the door open and let Andy go first. “I didn’t realize how much of an apology I owed you until—” He grimaced and jerked his head eastward. “I can’t believe you worked for her.”</p><p>Andy bristled. “She’s not that bad.”</p><p>“It took me<em>two tries</em>to even get past her assistant,” Mike said, reaching past her to hit the Up button. He gave his bike helmet a little shake, sending water all over Andy’s shoes. “Oops. Sorry.”</p><p>Assistant. </p><p><em>Assistant</em>.</p><p>Andy went cold all over. </p><p>The elevator doors opened, and Mike stepped in, then glanced back at her. “Uh. Andy.”</p><p>“Shut up,” Andy said, holding up one hand.</p><p>“Are you—”</p><p>“I said shut<em>up</em>.” Andy closed her eyes. “Oh, I am an idiot.”</p><p>Emily, crimson-haired and glamorous, boasting:<em>I’m in charge of her schedule, her appointments...</em></p><p><em>...and her expenses</em>. </p><p>“I have to go,” Andy said. She caught a glimpse of Mike’s bewildered expression, and then the elevator doors slid shut.</p><p>***</p><p>Sherry, it turned out, still worked in Human Resources. </p><p>“Oh, you’re the one she fired,” she said, when Andy walked in.</p><p>Andy blinked. “Uh—”</p><p>Sherry grinned. “I’m good with faces.”</p><p>“Well. Yes. Good,” Andy said, stumbling a little. “Great, actually, because I’m looking for someone.”</p><p>***</p><p>Faces, yes. Names, a little less so. Sherry had three interviews scheduled and didn’t have time to look at personnel files, so Andy was already back at Pearson Hardman when the list came through. Three names. Just three. </p><p>The proof wasn’t on Miranda’s computer, after all. It wasn’t in Greaves’s emails, or the bank statements from spurned and furious shareholders. It was on<em>Facebook,</em>for God’s sake. She had been scrolling mindlessly through Greaves’s account during a rooftop lunch break with Donna—both of them silently absorbed in their devices—when she saw it.</p><p>“Holy shit,” she said, and dropped her sandwich.</p><p>Donna looked at the scattered pastrami in horror, then up at Andy. “What?”</p><p>Grinning, Andy held the phone out. She was already on her feet. “We got him,” she said.</p><p>***</p><p>All it took, in the end, was an iMessage to the attorney general. The Facebook photo, screencapped, and an upside-down smiley face emoji from Harvey’s phone. </p><p>Andy zoomed in on the photo for the third time that hour. The lighting was bad, but neither face was obscured: Miranda’s second assistant from two years ago—<em>tagged</em>, how stupid could you be?—doing a tequila shot off of the top of Greaves’s head. The phone records had confirmed it. </p><p>“Extortion, fraud, larceny,” Harvey said, tossing a baseball in the air and catching it. “You did good, Sachs.”</p><p>“They get her, too?” After being promoted, the assistant had been sent to Paris to work for Runway France. Andy hadn’t been hopeful about extradition.</p><p>“Oh yeah. Lucky break.” He grinned, sharklike. “She's visiting her parents for Thanksgiving.”</p><p>“Holy cannoli,” Andy breathed. </p><p>Harvey looked amused. “Your Midwest is showing,” he said. “You want to go rubberneck the arrest with me?”</p><p>“Uh. No.” Andy grimaced. “Is it happening today?”</p><p>“Yep.” Harvey’s grin went from shark to canary-sated cat. “I’ll get a call from opposing counsel in, oh, probably two hours withdrawing the suit. And, knowing Earlham, begging to avoid a countersuit in the off chance Greaves doesn’t go to jail.”</p><p>“Which you--”</p><p> </p><p></p><div>
  <p>“Which I won’t, thank you, Sachs, you should know that by now.” Harvey tossed her the ball. “Now quit sweating on my floor and go tell Miranda the good news.”</p>
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<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>This time, the security guard waved her through. “Nice to see you, Harvey,” he said with a grin.</p><p>Andy laughed. “Thanks.”</p><p>The girl at the desk barely looked up when she buzzed Andy in. “Miranda Priestly,” Andy said.</p><p>An exaggerated eye roll. “I know.”</p><p>Andy bit back a grin and followed a rack of ruffled hot-pink cocktail dresses—<em>not</em>all exactly alike, thank you very much—down the hall toward Miranda’s office. “Go on in,” Cristina said, waving her through.</p><p>Miranda looked up when she entered. “Andrea,” she said, sounding surprised. </p><p>The grin escaped. “Wanted to wait until it was official,” she said, unable to keep the glee out of her voice, “but there’s a warrant out for Greaves’s arrest.”</p><p>Miranda went very still. “Is there,” she said.</p><p>“Yep.” It was all Andy could do to keep from jumping onto Miranda’s desk and doing a victory dance. </p><p>“I thought—” A pause. “I thought you said he wasn’t the one who hacked the accounts.”</p><p>“He wasn’t.” Andy pulled out her phone, unlocked it, and clicked on her photos app. She held the phone out so Miranda could see. “His accomplice,” she said proudly. "We got lucky--she's in the States."</p><p>Miranda paled slightly. “I see,” she said.</p><p>“They’re arresting her, too,” Andy said. She slid the phone back into her bag.</p><p>“Is that so.” Miranda looked away. The corners of her mouth had pulled tight. </p><p> “I’m already prepping the countersuit,” Andy added, and she suddenly understood why Harvey took on these high-profile cases instead of sticking to mergers and acquisitions. Her blood felt like it was on fire. She could almost feel her teeth going pointy. </p><p>Miranda stood up. “Andrea.”</p><p>She could work more with Harvey, maybe. She was basically attached to Elias Clarke now, wasn’t she, now that Miranda wanted only her? She’d seen the affiliations, what a mess—she could<em>definitely</em>fix those—and the advertising contracts, and the shareholder agreements—</p><p>“<em>Andrea,</em>” Miranda said again, and Andy looked up.</p><p>Miranda...did not look happy. Actually, now that Andy took the time to assess her expression and posture, she looked really, really<em>un</em>happy.</p><p>“Uh.” Andy felt her jubilation start to curdle. Her tongue suddenly felt as though it was coated in glue. “Yeah?”</p><p>Miranda turned away from her, walked toward the window, and looked out. “Thank you for your work,” she said, in a voice almost too quiet to hear. “Tell Harvey that going forward, I would like to see only him.”</p><p>It was as though Andy had been plunged into a bucket of ice water. “I’m sorry?” she heard herself say.</p><p>She saw Miranda’s spine straighten, saw her shoulders set. “It’s a more appropriate arrangement,” Miranda said, louder now. </p><p>The fire in Andy’s blood had consolidated in her neck and was making its way up to her face.<em>Are you fucking kidding me?</em>she wanted to yell. </p><p>“Sure, Miranda,” she mumbled, through gritted teeth. “Whatever you want.”</p><p>Miranda closed her eyes. “That’s all,” she said.</p><p>***</p><p><em>Famously unpredictable</em>, wasn’t that what Doug had said when Andy was first hired? She should have seen it coming. That did not, however, stop her from feeling like she’d been punched in the face. </p><p><em>Magna cum laude</em>from Harvard. Associate at Pearson Specter. She drove a Tesla, for fuck’s sake. And Miranda Priestly could still make her feel like she was three inches tall.</p><p>By the time Andy got back to work, the fury had fizzled out. Her feet felt like lead, and her teeth were most definitely human. She dragged herself back to her desk and put her head on her arms. </p><p>Fired.<em>Again</em>. </p><p>“I thought you’d be celebrating,” Rachel said when she walked by twenty minutes later. </p><p>Andy lifted her head. Her neck ached from being in the same position for so long. </p><p>“Whoa.” Rachel’s eyebrows went up. “Something go sideways?”</p><p>“No,” Andy said, rubbing her eyes. “It all went according to plan.” </p><p>“Uh, so why do you look like your dog just died?” Rachel made a face. “Your dog didn’t just die, did it?”</p><p>Andy gave her a look. “I don’t have a dog,” she said.</p><p>“I know,” Rachel said, smiling a little. “I was trying to snap you out of it.”</p><p>Andy put her head back onto the desk. “Thanks.”</p><p>“Come on.” Rachel tugged on the back of Andy’s sweater. “Let’s do a couple laps. I want to steal one of Louis’s raspberry bran bars.”</p><p> ***</p><p>Andy was an associate. A senior associate, yeah, but still an associate. Her whole job was to make the partners look good. If she got credit for something, that was nice, but she never<em>expected</em>it. </p><p>But it rankled—it really<em>hurt—</em><span class="apple-converted-space">that Miranda wanted Harvey back. Had she assumed the work was all his?</span> Undoubtedly. Andy was mad at<em>herself</em>for letting the assumption ride, which was bad, and pissed off that Miranda had fired her, which was even worse.</p><p>She turned the speed on her treadmill up to five and a half.<em>I do not care about credit</em>, she told herself furiously. </p><p>She wasn’t<em>supposed</em>to take credit. Her work was the partners’ work was the firm’s work. That was how it went.</p><p>So why did she feel so shitty?</p><p>It wasn’t like it mattered what Miranda thought. She was a client—<em>Elias Clarke</em>was a client. It wasn’t like it mattered that Miranda had put her finances, her future, and her reputation into Andy’s hands. It wasn’t like it mattered that Andy had glowed like a lightning bug when Miranda had picked her over Harvey. It wasn’t even like it mattered that Andy’s heart had done a weird taffy-pulling thing when her stupid little gesture had made Miranda stop crying. </p><p>She didn’t<em>care</em>about Miranda. She wasn’t wondering if Miranda was changing her email passwords tonight, or going through her credit card statements, or doing extra background checks on everyone at Runway. She wasn’t thinking about how vulnerable Miranda must be feeling, or if she had someone to talk to.</p><p>She didn’t care about Miranda. She didn’t like Miranda. She wasn’t thinking about Miranda. She wasn’t<em>going</em>to think about Miranda. Not for one more second.</p><p>“Fuck,” Andy muttered, and cranked up the treadmill some more.</p><p>***</p><p>It was a bad week.</p><p>Andy wasn’t sure what had compelled Harvey to send Mike to close a two hundred million-dollar licensing deal, but whatever his plan had been, it had backfired spectacularly. They were both in such terrible moods that Louis looked like Bob Ross in comparison. </p><p> “Here.” She handed him the briefs he'd requested that morning, plus two from Owens, since Owens was a moron.</p><p>“Who spit in<em>your</em>drink?” Louis replied.</p><p>Andy’s head moved back about eight inches. “Excuse me?”</p><p> He made a face like he'd just bitten a lemon. “You’ve been skulking around like Donatello since last Thursday.”</p><p>“Like...Donatello...” Andy said blankly.</p><p>“The Ninja Turtle,” Louis said impatiently. “What’s wrong?”</p><p>“Um.” Andy cleared her throat. “Nothing.”</p><p>“Look, I know everyone thinks I’m a gunslinger with a heart of steel—”</p><p><em>Absolutely no one thinks that,</em>Andy thought.</p><p>“—but the associates are my responsibility, and if someone is having a hard time, and it’s not because of me, then I need to know about it.” He leaned back and folded his arms.</p><p>Andy looked away.<em>Well, I’ve developed personal concern for a client</em>was probably not something she should say out loud. “Um,” she said, scrambling.</p><p>Louis raised his eyebrows. </p><p>“My dog died,” Andy blurted at last, and got the hell out of there.</p><p>***</p><p>When she got back from her lunch meeting, there were flowers on her desk. </p><p>For a moment she stood frozen, unable to think anything but<em>What if they’re from Miranda</em>? Then she mentally slapped herself across the face and reached for the attached card. It had her name on it, so the flowers were definitely for her. She tore open the envelope.</p><p><em>So sorry for your loss,</em>it read, in pink glittery script. Underneath was Louis’s signature. </p><p>It was a really nice arrangement. It was a really nice thing to do. Louis was an asshole, but he was an asshole who cared. And that was what you did when you cared about someone, wasn’t it? You let them know.</p><p>Andy picked up the phone.</p>
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<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>She remembered saying the words a thousand times a day, inadvertently adopting Emily’s sing-song lilt:<em>Miranda Priestly’s office.</em></p><p>“It’s Andy. Um, Andy Sachs,” she said, stammering.</p><p><em>Click</em>of the hold button, then the second<em>click</em>of Miranda’s phone connecting. “Yes,” she said.</p><p>Andy’s heart sank a little. Miranda sounded completely neutral, which, for Miranda, meant total disdain. </p><p>But if Andy didn’t do<em>something</em>to exorcise all these unwelcome Miranda thoughts, she was going to lose her damned job. “Hi,” she said.</p><p>Silence on the other end. Miranda, she remembered, never greeted anyone twice.</p><p>“I was wondering how you were,” Andy said finally, shutting her eyes.<em>God</em>, she hoped no one could hear her. </p><p>Still nothing. She could hear Miranda breathing. Then: “Passable.”</p><p>“Oh,” Andy said lamely. “Well...good.”</p><p>“Indeed.” </p><p>Silence again. Andy estimated she had about three seconds to come up with something before Miranda got bored and hung up. </p><p>“Do you want to get coffee?” she said in a rush. </p><p>“Hm,” Miranda said. “No.”</p><p>Well, this was it. She was going to die. She was going to sink through the floor and die. At<em>work</em>, no less.</p><p>“Dinner,” Miranda said. “At my home. Saturday at eight.” </p><p>Andy made a squeaking sound, but the call had already ended.</p><p>***</p><p>Unfortunately, the next two days were total chaos. </p><p>“I do not care,” Harvey yelled across the bullpen at three PM on Saturday, “if we are here until Valentines Day, we are<em>closing this deal.</em>”</p><p>“I am going to kill you in so many ways,” Andy muttered to Mike under her breath. </p><p>“I said I was sorry!” Mike hissed back.</p><p>“Shut up,” Harvey yelled again, “and keep reading.”</p><p>***</p><p>Four PM. Then five, then six. </p><p>At six-thirty, Andy finally said, “I really have to go.”</p><p>“Oh,” Mike said dimly, “okay.”</p><p>He had circles under his eyes. His tie was on the desk, his shirt was creased, and his hair was sticking straight up. He looked terrible.  </p><p>Andy sighed. “You have one more hour.”</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p>By the time she rang Miranda’s bell, it was ten after eight. </p><p>“I’m so sorry,” Andy said, when the door opened. </p><p>Miranda’s lips were pursed with displeasure. Her eyes looked like chips of ice. Andy had seen that expression approximately sixteen thousand times before, and it never ended well for the person at whom it was aimed. </p><p>She was just opening her mouth to explain, to tell Miranda<em>There was a thing at the office,</em>in a last-ditch attempt to salvage the dinner invitation. She was pretty sure it wouldn’t work.</p><p>Then Miranda looked at Andy—really looked at her—and something happened that Andy had seen approximately zero times before. </p><p>The corners of Miranda’s mouth relaxed. A little crease appeared between her eyebrows. The frosty, distant look in her eyes vanished. </p><p>Andy blinked. It took her a second to recognize the expression on Miranda’s face.</p><p>Miranda...looked<em>concerned</em>.</p><p>“Come in,” Miranda said, in a voice that was—well, it wasn’t neutral, anyway. </p><p>It felt weirdly intimate, taking off her shoes and coat in Miranda’s foyer, but the rain hadn’t let up for days and the hardwood floors looked as though they cost half a year’s rent. And anyway, Miranda was barefoot. Which, for some reason, made Andy’s face burn.</p><p>Miranda was still looking at her, still with worry in her eyes, but now she also looked slightly bemused, as though she herself was not quite sure why her face was doing what it was. “Something to drink?” she asked, and her voice went up a little on the last word.</p><p>“Um.” Andy looked down, her cheeks going even hotter. “Water, I guess. Sure. Thanks.”</p><p>The house smelled wonderful—steak, Andy was pretty sure, and thyme. “Smells good,” she added.</p><p>Miranda blinked, then turned abruptly and walked toward the kitchen. Andy followed. She hung back a little to look at the wall of photos of Cassidy and Caroline.</p><p>“They’re so grown up,” she said, the words out of her mouth before she could decide if they were a good idea or not. </p><p>Miranda stopped and looked back, her features smoothing into a small smile. “Yes, they are.”</p><p>Okay. That was good. Talking about your kids—that was normal conversation, right? It had made that odd expression on Miranda’s face go away, at least. </p><p>“Where are they studying?” Andy asked.</p><p>Miranda came back toward her and suddenly she was<em>right there</em>, eight inches away, looking over Andy’s shoulder at the photos. </p><p>“Caroline,” she said, pointing to what looked like a very expensive senior portrait, “is at Tisch, studying photography. Cassidy is at Columbia.”</p><p>Andy pretended to be absorbed in the pictures and hoped Miranda wouldn’t notice the goosebumps that had flared on the back of her neck. “Also doing art?” </p><p>Miranda made a little huffing sound, and Andy realized that she had<em>laughed.</em>“No,” Miranda said. “Biology, at the moment, although last semester it was physics.”</p><p>“She corrected the solar system model,” Andy said, remembering. </p><p>Miranda didn’t answer. Andy looked at her out of the corner of her eye, and now Miranda’s expression wasn’t readable at all. </p><p>Finally she said, “Well. Dinner,” and left Andy in the library.</p><p>Andy stood there for a moment, trying to figure out what had just happened. Had it been a bad idea to bring up the past? She<em>had</em>done the twins’ projects for them. It wasn’t like she’d made that up. </p><p>“Can I do anything?” She went into the kitchen, expecting to see take-out containers—expensive ones, maybe with foil swans—on the granite island. </p><p> She was shocked to see, instead, a large casserole dish on the counter, filled with what appeared to be boeuf bourguignon. A bowl of roasted green beans sat beside it, and a dish of potatoes au gratin had already been placed on the table.</p><p>Andy looked at Miranda. Her sleeves were rolled up, and she wasn’t wearing any bracelets or rings. There was a tiny spot of what looked like red wine on the hem of her blouse.</p><p>“I didn’t know you cooked,” Andy said.</p><p> Miranda’s lips twitched. She looked, for a moment, as though she was trying not to smile. “And why would you?” She raised her eyebrows imperiously and glanced toward the table. </p><p>“I can—” Andy said, moving toward the food as Miranda lifted the casserole.</p><p>“Sit,” Miranda said.</p><p>Andy sat. </p><p>“Wow. Miranda.” Andy breathed in the boeuf bourguignon as Miranda placed it on the table. “This looks amazing.”</p><p>Miranda turned back to retrieve the green beans, but Andy saw her face flush pink. Who did she cook for, Andy wondered suddenly. She hadn’t really had<em>friends</em>all those years ago, had she? None of the people on her calendar were the type to see her—Andy had to bite back a smile—<em>barefoot</em>in the<em>kitchen.</em> </p><p>The twins, she supposed, as Miranda came back to the table. They’d had a cook back then, but people changed.</p><p>“Thank you,” Andy said, as Miranda sat down across from her.</p><p>Flash of blue as Miranda glanced up. “You look as though you had a rather long day,” she said.</p><p>“You have no idea,” Andy said, reaching for the green beans. “Mike—you remember Mike?”</p><p>“How could I forget?” Miranda said dryly.</p><p>“He botched—and I mean<em>botched—</em>one of Harvey’s deals. I can’t talk about it, obviously, but the fallout was—” Andy stuck her lower lip out and blew her bangs off her forehead. “Anyway, then it was forty-eight hours of bylaws. I think I may have brain damage from highlighter fumes.” </p><p>She stabbed at a bean and thought, for a moment, about how well she might have dressed for this dinner had Mike not been a total idiot. Then she looked at Miranda.</p><p>Miranda’s face, tonight, was doing all manner of things that Andy had never seen before. That half-bemused, half-concerned expression was back, and she was gazing at Andy as though Andy were a particularly complicated standstill agreement. </p><p>“Why are you here?” she said.</p><p>If Andy’s life were a movie, this would be the record-scratch freeze frame. “Ah,” she said after a moment. “Because you asked me?”</p><p>Miranda’s eyes narrowed incrementally, as though this were almost, but not quite, the answer she wanted. “I fired you,” she said.</p><p>Andy raised her eyebrows and gave Miranda a little salute with her water glass. “Twice.”</p><p>“Yet you’re at my dinner table.” </p><p>“Looks that way,” Andy said, sipping.</p><p>Miranda’s lips were starting to look dangerously close to pursed. That look, Andy knew, meant<em>Talk right damn now</em>. </p><p>So she talked. “And why,” she said, setting the glass down, “did you ask me to your dinner table?”</p><p>Miranda’s expression didn’t change, but Andy saw her jaw tighten. She lifted her chin, and for a moment Andy thought that they might be engaged in some kind of bizarre grown-up dinner party staring contest. </p><p>But then she took a deep breath and looked away. “I believe I may have given you—” She paused. “An inaccurate impression. When you gave me the news.”</p><p>“Are you apologizing?” Andy said.</p><p>Miranda looked slightly shocked. “No,” she said. “That is to say—”</p><p>Andy raised her eyebrows. </p><p>At that moment, Andy decided she had won the grown-up dinner party staring contest, because Miranda let out a little theatrical sigh and said “Yes.”</p><p>She tried not to smirk. “Thank you.”</p><p>“You were incorrigible as an assistant,” Miranda said, rolling her eyes, “and as an attorney—”</p><p>“Intolerable?” The not-smirk turned into a grin. This was kind of fun, actually, now that Andy had almost gotten past the weirdness of it all. Their shared history provided a little bit of groundwork for conversation, at least. And Miranda was proving to be surprisingly good at banter. </p><p>“I was going to say rather brilliant,” Miranda said coolly, sipping her wine, and the grin froze on Andy’s face.</p><p>It wasn’t until she saw the victorious glitter in Miranda’s eyes that she found her voice. “You did that on purpose,” she said accusingly.</p><p>Miranda turned her chin toward one shoulder in a little half-shrug. A tiny smile was playing at the corners of her mouth.  </p><p>“Then I guess it’s only fair that I tell you,” Andy said, leaning forward, “that I’m here because I wanted to see how you were. Because I care about you.” She put a little emphasis on the word<em>care</em>. </p><p>Strike that. This was<em>really</em>fun. </p><p>Miranda looked at Andy out of the corner of her eye, and she didn’t exactly<em>move</em>, but—</p><p>Oh, that was not fair. That was not fair<em>at all</em>. This was supposed to be<em>verbal</em>sparring, not—not whatever<em>that</em>was. Andy went hot all over, and her heart gave a little judder. </p><p>She looked away, then reached for a serving spoon. “Yeah. Well,” she said, clearing her throat. “Let’s eat.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Andy thought Miranda would have that smug little gleam in her eye for the rest of the evening, but by the time she brought out dessert, she seemed to have absolved Andy of any reaction to that<em>look</em>. </p><p>“Oh my God,” Andy said, closing her eyes as apple tarte tatin melted on her tongue. “Miranda. This crust is heartbreaking.”</p><p>“In a good way, I hope,” Miranda said, with a little smile. </p><p>“The best,” Andy declared. She’d given in and accepted a glass of wine, figuring she’d just leave the Tesla and Uber home instead. </p><p>“I learned from Jacques Pepin.” Miranda forked a small bite into her mouth and chewed delicately.</p><p>“I have YouTube too. Doesn’t mean I can make something like this,” Andy said, taking a significantly bigger bite.</p><p>Miranda arched an eyebrow. She didn’t say anything.</p><p>Andy choked a little, gulped. “Oh!” she said. “You mean<em>actual</em>Jacques Pepin.”</p><p>A tiny nod. Miranda looked extremely pleased with herself. </p><p>“Well.” Andy grinned around the tines of her fork. “If we’re name-dropping, I’ll have you know that I was once served a fantastic meal by none other than Miranda Priestly.”</p><p>Miranda laughed. A real, actual laugh, with pink cheeks and everything. “Don’t get used to it,” she said.</p><p>“Why not?” Andy said. She put the fork down. “I happen to be an excellent dinner date.”</p><p>Miranda stopped laughing, and the smile faded from her lips. She looked straight at Andy with eyes like butane torches. “So you are,” she said quietly. </p><p>Andy’s heart did the juddering thing again, but this time it didn’t slow down. She watched as Miranda pushed her plate away.</p><p>“I know,” Miranda said, “that the work was yours.”</p><p>Something clenched in Andy’s stomach. “It’s the firm’s,” she said lightly. “Not mine.”</p><p>”Andrea.” Miranda put both hands flat on the table.</p><p>“Okay, yeah,” Andy said, wrinkling her nose. “Just don’t tell Harvey I admitted it.”</p><p>“Harvey,” Miranda said thoughtfully. “Andrea, do you know why I no longer want you as my attorney?”</p><p>“Poor judgment, probably,” Andy said, but it came out a lot less incisive and a lot more apprehensive than she intended.</p><p>Miranda raised an eyebrow. “No.”</p><p>“Are you going to make me guess?” Andy said. “It looked like you suddenly decided I was useless, if you must know.”</p><p>“Useless?” Surprise in Miranda’s voice, now. “No, Andrea. Quite the contrary.”</p><p>Andy pushed her plate away, too. “You have a funny way of showing it.”</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Miranda said, at which Andy very nearly fell off her chair.</p><p>“Yeah. Well. You have one more strike, I guess,” Andy managed, stumbling a little. “Night’s still young.”</p><p>But Miranda didn’t take the bait this time. “I have been wondering, these past few weeks,” she said in a low voice, “what my life would have been like if you had not left it so abruptly.”</p><p>“You had <em>Emily</em> fire me,” Andy pointed out.</p><p>“Mm.” A tiny shrug. “I don’t recall.”</p><p>“Who’s the attorney here?” Andy said, still going for levity, although she sort of felt like someone was standing on her chest.</p><p>Miranda’s lips curved in a smile that sucked the breath right out of Andy’s lungs. “What did you say about the night being young?”</p><p>“Um,” Andy said.</p><p>She watched as Miranda pushed her chair back from the table and stood. Took a step to the side—was she going back to the kitchen?</p><p>No.</p><p>She was coming toward Andy. And Andy found that she could not—absolutely could<em>not—</em>return her gaze. She stared instead at Miranda’s barely-eaten tarte tatin. Counted the apple slices she could see as Miranda came closer and stood just behind her chair.</p><p>As she dropped her fingertips lightly onto Andy’s shoulders.</p><p>As she bent and brought her lips to Andy’s ear.</p><p>“I think, Andrea,” she murmured, “that I am very glad I fired you.”</p><p>Andy took one breath, and then a second, and then she, too, stood. Turned to face Miranda as she straightened. Now, at last, she did meet Miranda’s eyes.</p><p>Blue and burning. Her lips were parted. </p><p>“So you weren’t apologizing,” Andy said, and reached out with one hand, and took Miranda’s chin lightly between her thumb and the knuckle of her forefinger. </p><p>“Not even a little,” Miranda said, and kissed her.</p><p>It was, Andy thought dizzily, a very good kiss. A very good kiss that was doing very interesting things to various parts of her body, including her knees, which seemed to want to stop working. She needed something to hold onto if she was going to remain upright.</p><p>Her hands closed around Miranda’s hips. Miranda swayed into her, tangling her fingers into Andy’s hair. </p><p>“You planned this all along,” Andy mumbled against Miranda’s mouth, one hand now sliding beneath the hem of Miranda’s shirt. </p><p>Miranda pulled back long enough to give her an offended look. “Don’t be ridiculous.”</p><p>“Mm.” Andy raised her eyebrows and used the opportunity to explore the angle of Miranda’s jaw with her lips. “So you make three-course dinners for just anybody.” She caught Miranda’s earlobe between her teeth, eliciting an extremely satisfying gasp. </p><p>“Well—” Another gasp as Andy’s tongue found the hollow behind Miranda’s ear. “I will admit to a certain degree of—<em>ahh—</em>indulgence, when it comes to—to—”</p><p>And then, rather delightfully, Miranda had no more words at all. </p><p>Andy had no idea where anything was in Miranda’s house besides the first floor and the Office of Fireable Offense, so she started to pull Miranda toward the couch, but Miranda stopped her. </p><p>“Andrea,” she said, breathing hard, “I will not...<em>make out</em>...with you on a couch like a college student.”</p><p>“I can’t believe Miranda Priestly just said the phrase<em>make out</em>,” Andy said, unbuttoning the third button of Miranda’s blouse. “Do you have a better plan?”</p><p>“As a matter of fact,” Miranda said, tipping Andy’s face up to kiss her again, “I do.” She took Andy by the waist and steered her toward the stairs. </p><p>“Good plan,” Andy said delightedly. She definitely thought so. At least for the first three flights.</p><p>“<em>Miranda</em>,” Andy leaned against the doorframe, gasping for breath. “The<em>fourth floor</em>?”</p><p> Miranda, who did not appear even slightly winded, sailed past, dropping her blouse on the floor as she went. “Who needs a trainer?” she said over her shoulder. “Are you coming?”</p><p> Andy did not wish to be likened once more to a college student, and so resisted the urge to say<em>Nope, just breathing hard.</em>She followed Miranda to the bed.</p><p>“Well,” Miranda said. She sat down, hooked one finger into the waist of Andy’s trousers, and tugged her forward. There was a little smile on her lips. “Here we are.”</p><p>“Sure you haven’t changed your mind?” Andy said. She said it lightly, but this wasn’t just some random lay, it was<em>Miranda.</em>Andy wanted to make sure that all exit strategies were made available, should they be desired. </p><p>Miranda leaned forward, pushed Andy’s top up, and slowly—<em>agonizingly</em>slowly, Jesus—worked her tongue up Andy’s stomach. By the time she pulled back, Andy’s lower half had basically liquefied. </p><p>“Have you ever,” Miranda said in a low voice, looking up at Andy with an expression that set Andy's entire body aflame, “known me to be indecisive?”</p><p>“Oh thank God,” Andy said, and took Miranda by the shoulders, and tumbled them both backward onto the bed.</p><p>“Very graceful.” The moan between Miranda’s words made them somewhat less cutting.</p><p>Andy closed her mouth over Miranda’s nipple and mouthed it through the lace of her bra until Miranda was writhing. “You’re not as mean as you think you are,” Andy breathed.</p><p>Hands on her back, clutching. “And you’re—<em>oh—</em>not as clever as you think<em>you</em>are,” Miranda managed.</p><p>Andy grinned into the curve of Miranda’s waist. “Oh yes I am,” she said.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I’m self indulgent and wrote my own artwork into this scene lmaoooo https://archiveofourown.org/works/26557465</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. epilogue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Should I go home?” Andy said, afterward.</p><p>Miranda’s fingers stopped their aimless roaming over Andy’s stomach. She gave Andy a sharp look. “Do you want to go home?”</p><p>Andy grinned. “No.”</p><p>The look turned into a reproachful glare. “<em>Andrea</em>. Was that a test?”</p><p>“Hey.” Andy stretched forward and lightly kissed the tip of Miranda’s nose. “Don’t worry. You passed.”</p><p>Miranda sniffed. “I could change my mind,” she said.</p><p>“Yeah, but it’s late, and—” This time, Andy kissed her lips. “I’ve never known you to be indecisive.” And slipped a hand between Miranda’s thighs.</p><p>***</p><p>The bedside clock said two AM. Andy was supposed to be at work at eight, but Miranda was curled against her back, warm and heavy with sleep, and Andy decided, for once, that she was going to sleep in.</p><p>***</p><p>When Miranda opened her eyes, the first thing she said was “You’re still here.”</p><p>Andy raised an eyebrow. “Want to try that again?”</p><p>“I meant that,” Miranda said, sitting up, “in a good way.” She yawned. </p><p>“The delivery was okay,” Andy said, leaning to kiss Miranda's neck. “The script needs work.”</p><p>“Your phone is ringing,” Miranda replied.</p><p>Andy listened. Very, very faintly, from three floors below, she could hear the sound of her phone. </p><p>“Like a <em>bat</em>,” she said, giving Miranda an impressed look before scrambling out of bed completely naked. “No one’s coming in, are they?” she called over her shoulder. She didn’t wait to hear an answer.</p><p>By the time she got to the foyer, the phone had gone quiet. “Oh,” she said, seeing the six missed calls from Mike, and two from Donna. “Shit.”</p><p>“<em>Eight</em>,” Mike snapped, when she called him back. </p><p>“It’s Sunday,” Andy reminded him, “and I’m doing you a favor.”</p><p>She heard rustling, and a moment later Donna came on the line. “Harvey’s in a snit,” she explained. </p><p>“Ugh,” Andy said. “Fine. I’m on my way.”</p><p>She climbed back up to Miranda’s room—it actually did feel a little easier this time, maybe it really <em>was</em>as good as a trainer—and reached for her clothes. </p><p>“I have to go,” she said regretfully.</p><p>Miranda smiled a little. “The life we chose.”</p><p>“I guess.” Andy snaked her arms into her bra and tugged her shirt over her head. “This was...this was good, Miranda. Like, really good.” She felt herself start to blush.</p><p>“It was,” Miranda said. She sounded as though she was waiting for Andy to say something more.</p><p>“If you wanted to do it again—” The zipper on Andy’s pants gave her the opportunity to look away from Miranda for a moment, just in case the answer was no. “That would make me. Um. Happy.” </p><p>“Oh, that all of my actions would have such tangible results,” Miranda replied, sounding amused.</p><p>“They could,” Andy said, waggling her eyebrows suggestively. </p><p>That laugh again, the one that turned Miranda’s cheeks pink and made her eyes sparkle like a damn cartoon character. It turned Andy into a human pudding cup. She bent to give Miranda one final kiss.</p><p>“Go,” Miranda said, pushing at her.</p><p>Andy grinned. “Going.” She left the bedroom door open so Miranda would be able to hear her shout from the foyer. “See you next weekend!”</p><p>***</p><p>By early evening, Andy was <em>really</em>feeling the late night and the glass of wine. She yawned for the fourth time in as many minutes and put down her pen. “You about ready?” she asked Mike. </p><p>He yawned, too. “Yeah,” he said. “Ready as I’ll ever be, I guess.”</p><p>As they walked out of the building, Andy jerked her chin toward her car. “One last stop,” she said. “Dinner. On me.”</p><p>“Oh yeah?” Mike said, raising an eyebrow. He looked pleased. “What’s the occasion?”</p><p>Andy smiled. </p><p>“Turns out,” she said, slinging her arm across his shoulders, “I owe you some noodles.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>fin</em>
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